


i know a thing about contrition

by sarcasticfishes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Derek Hale Friendship, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Banshee Lydia Martin, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Non-Human Claudia Stilinski, Roommates, Secrets, Supernatural Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticfishes/pseuds/sarcasticfishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly four people had responded to the advertisement Derek had put in the local newspaper. En-suite room for rent at 14b Woodburn Street. Non-smokers, please. Contact Derek at blah blah blah- he wasn’t exactly optimistic.</p><p>Stacey was sweet thirty-something and a very good candidate. Quentin was a college student who seemed a little stuck up, quite frankly, but was apparently an astronomy major, so Derek didn’t think he’d be seeing much of him. Tim was an accountant, and seemed like a top guy if not a bit dull. All good candidates, Derek knew.</p><p>But Stiles. Stiles was <i>something else</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know a thing about contrition

**Author's Note:**

> This came about through a tumblr post that I took some artistic license too and with some encouragement from my girl Mette, turned it into a fic. I'd have given up at the 5k mark if it wasn't for her, and my other love Jo! Title is from MCR's 'House of Wolves' (Believe me, I'm actually so thick that I didn't realize the irony until afterwards. I know. I know.) ~~Credit to Eva for not letting me call it 'I Never Told You What I Do For A Living'...~~
> 
> Beta'd by three amazing ladies [lazarusthefirst](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarusthefirst), [angelastjoan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelastjoan) and [augusttimes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/augusttimes). This wouldn't have been posted without them. Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.

It was no secret that the Hales were kind of wealthy. ‘Kind of’ being an understatement. Their restaurant was widely referred to as ‘the best in town’, and that was kind of an understatement too (it definitely _was_ best in town). Business was always booming.

However, Derek refused to accept money from his mother. He wasn’t going to be a freeloader. He was doing perfectly fine for himself at the auto-repair shop, and he liked to think of himself as an independent man. Derek was closer to thirty than he was to twenty, and thought that at this point in his life he should be able to sustain himself. He didn’t judge others who accepted help from their families, in fact he thought it took courage to ask a parent for financial help, but it just wasn’t who he was.

And that was where Stiles came into the equation. Exactly four people had responded to the advertisement Derek had put in the local newspaper. En-suite room for rent at 14b Woodburn Street. Non-smokers, please. Contact Derek at blah blah blah. Derek wasn’t exactly optimistic.

He interviewed them all. Stacey was sweet thirty-something and a very good candidate. Quentin was a college student who seemed a little stuck up, quite frankly, but was apparently an astronomy major, so Derek didn’t think he’d be seeing much of him. Tim was an accountant, and seemed like a top guy if not a bit dull. All good candidates, Derek knew.

But Stiles. Stiles was something else.

First of all, he had this ludicrous first name that Derek knew not to even attempt because it would end in disaster, and the kid had just laughed and said – with this ridiculous, cartoony, squeaky-gruff (somehow?) voice – _It’s fine. Call me Stiles. Call me what you want, I’ve heard it all_. He was young, almost twenty-five, and had been living with his dad in the town since he graduated from Columbia. Stiles had said he wanted to ‘spread his wings’ again, or something.

He’d sat down on Derek’s sofa, all long legs and strong forearms, inked in black and maroon, sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows, and somehow he just looked right sitting there. That being said, no matter how right Stiles seemed to look in Derek’s apartment, there just seemed to be something _wrong_ with him, a permanently mischievous look to his face. He had a wicked cute smile, these big, luminous, doe-eyes – they would almost be too feminine if it weren’t for the broad, dark curves of his eyebrows, swooping up and over the arch of his eye socket – and this pretty little mouth.

Derek wasn’t a shallow guy. He was far from it, but _fuck_ , this guy was just gorgeous. And Derek couldn’t let him go out the door without giving him a key first.

“You’re an idiot,” Erica said when he told her, and Allison had just nodded with a grim set to her mouth, wiping her grease-streaked hands off on a rag, “You picked a housemate by his degree of hotness.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s completely true,” Erica protested, “Because I saw those other applicants and they seemed like lovely, perfectly normal people-”

“Except that Quentin guy,” Allison grimaced.

“Oh my god, yeah, what a prick. Anyway. You picked the weird, hot one over the normal, relatively-okay-looking ones.”

“I’m not shallow.”

Boyd said nothing, just watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow. Derek’s eye twitched.

“Okay guys, leave him alone,” Allison stood up, laughing, slung her rag over her shoulder, “This ‘Stiles’ pays rent, and Derek thinks he seems like a good guy. Whether or not he’s hot is irrelevant. I bet he’s not even _that_ good looking.”

A noise of protest slipped out before Derek could stop it, and Allison groaned as Erica raised her hands in triumph.

“I knew it!” she crowed.

Allison threw Derek a look that simply said, _I tried to help, but you’re an idiot._

Boyd just snorted, and moved into the front office of the garage to reopen after the lunch break.

Whatever. Derek had his reasons for picking Stiles. He couldn’t put them into words, but to be perfectly honest, he didn’t need to explain his reasoning to anyone. Not even to himself.

*

Stiles didn’t appear to own much in the way of worldly possessions, other than an expansive music collection and a stack of plaid shirts. However, he seemed to take to his new room like a duck to water.

The strangest thing though – and Derek tried not to look _too_ closely into this – was that he didn’t have a bed.

“He’s so strange.” Derek picked at a breadstick, and Scott casually swatted him away, taking the basket and disappearing into a cloud of steam in the kitchen at Hales’.

“Stop eating those. Your mom’ll kill me.”

“No she won’t.”

“She might.”

“She won’t. Shut up and listen to me complain.”

“About your _hot_ roommate, yeah, lots to complain about there,” Isaac said, his voice laced in sarcasm. Then he said, thoughtfully, “Maybe he’s part of a cult.”

“He goes out late at night a lot,” Derek admitted, “It’s not like he’s hiding it, because he comes back in the morning and says hello and goes straight into that room.”

The room without a bed.

“Probably should have given the room to Accountant Tim.”

Derek threw the bread-stick at him.

*

Stiles carried around this one notebook like his life depended on it. He didn’t let Derek touch it. (Derek worried, maybe he _was_ part of a cult.)

He wasn’t the worst housemate, he just didn’t like to do housework. He paid his rent on time and always in full, despite seeming to not have a job, and that was weird and a little scary to Derek. Sometimes he played loud music late at night. But at least he was kind of thoughtful.

“I brought takeout,” Stiles said, in that cartoonish, smooth-scratchy voice, wielding a bag filled with Chinese takeout cartons. “I kinda guessed stuff, since I didn’t know what you might like.”

But the order was perfect, and Derek watched him a little warily as he spread the food out on the coffee table, and then himself on the floor with a single cartoon of noodles in his hand.

“You never told me what you do for a living,” Derek said, in what he hoped was a casual tone. Stiles paused with his chopsticks in the air, noodles trailing from his mouth to the utensils and into the carton.

“Tattoo artist,” he said, simply, and that kind of made sense. “Late night tattoo artist,” he added, like an afterthought. Derek laughed.

“You’re strange.”

“Says the werewolf.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, surprised,  “That doesn’t sound prejudiced at all.”

Stiles’ eyes widened comically, and he put down his food, “Dude! No way. Back in high school my best friend was a were. It’s chill. I mean, I’m living here with you. I bought you takeout. Definitely no prejudice happening. I promise.”

Derek lamely speared a piece of chicken with his chopstick, smiling into his carton.

“So strange,” he said, “But good.”

Stiles smiled too, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

*

There was a beautiful, red-haired woman on Derek’s couch when he got home, and she stood up and grinned as he came through the door, eying her warily.

“Hello?” he said to her, cautiously, and Stiles came through from the kitchen with a grin.

“Derek! I have someone for you to meet.”

Derek sort of inwardly sighed, because of course this was going to be Stiles’ girlfriend, isn’t it? His stomach clenched unhappily at the notion.

Thankfully, no.

“This is Lydia, the one and only woman in my life, my beautiful I-would-if-I-were-straight best friend.”

And there, in about four simple words is everything Derek ever wanted to know. _If I were straight_. Beautiful.

“Wonderful to meet you, Lydia,” he said, as he extended his hand for her to shake, “Wish I could say that Stiles has told me all about you.”

Lydia gave Stiles a look of disbelief as she shook Derek’s hand, “I’m genuinely shocked.”

Stiles went pink to the roots of his hair, even darker down his neck, and Derek’s mouth went dry.

“I’m capable of keeping my mouth shut,” Stiles protested, trying to regain his composure, and Lydia waved him off with a roll of her eyes.

“Will you have lunch with us?” she asked Derek, catching his hand, “Stiles is just finishing up making sushi, he’s actually a great cook.”

“Is he,” Derek smirked, “I wouldn’t know, what with all the takeout he’s bringing home.”

Stiles visibly winced, but stationed himself at the countertop where he had obviously been working before, and Lydia dragged Derek to sit with her at the island.

“Well, you may not have heard a lot about me, but Stiles has told me a _lot_ about you,” she preened, “I hear you run the repair shop downtown? Congrats, you’re the only capable mechanics in town and they only place I trust with my baby.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, “You’re a regular?”

He only had a handful of regulars, and tried to match Lydia’s persona up to each vehicle in his head.

“Yep,” she smiled. “Me and Allison,” –she held up two crossed fingers– “Like this.”

Well that narrowed it down, “The silver Audi A6?”

“That’s me,” she beamed, “I’ll have to stop in and say hello to you next time I’m around.”

“Make sure you do,” Derek said, eyes lingering on the way Stiles’ shoulders tensed as he picked up the trays of food to carry over.

“So, speaking of, do you have a girlfriend, Derek? A boyfriend, maybe? Stiles never mentioned anything-”

She’s cut off by the trays of food slamming down in front of her and Derek, Stiles abruptly pulling up a bar stool to sit across them. Lydia gave him a pointed look, which he heatedly returned as he folded himself onto the stool. Derek wondered if he was missing something.

“No, not at all,” he said, “I’m a free agent.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lydia purred, as Stiles stonily set out plates and chopsticks. Derek wondered if Stiles just really enjoyed Asian food, or whether it was the novelty of the chopsticks he enjoyed more, “Do you date around?”

“Uh,” Derek paused, taking in the spread of food set out before them. He couldn’t believe he didn’t know Stiles could cook. “I guess. Not recently, haven’t had the opportunity.”

“Hmm,” Lydia hummed, but she wasn’t looking at Derek, instead watching Stiles (who seemed to be trying his hardest not to look back at her), “That’s probably a good thing. Sometimes the right people are just _drawn_ to you.”

There’s a clatter as Stiles sweeps his own plate right off the counter and onto the floor.

“Whoops,” he said, loudly, “How clumsy of me. Sometimes I just can’t control my hands.”

“Apparently,” Lydia said, unimpressed.

“Remind me never to let you tattoo me,” Derek said, fiddling with his chopsticks and watching Stiles stoop to pick up his miraculously unbroken plate. A grin picked up the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

“I said _sometimes_ I can’t control them. And _sometimes_ I happen to be very good with them.”

Derek let his eyes slip down the length of Stiles’ arms, down to his hands. And those _hands_. There was no doubt he could be very good with them. _And very bad_. And Derek really wished he hadn’t gone there.

He turned away abruptly, staring down at his food, but when he looked back up Stiles was sliding back into his seat and his cheeks were flushed a dark, delicious pink.

Lydia looked smug around a mouthful of rice. Derek was absolutely sure that he was missing something.

*

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Stiles said, a few minutes after he returned from leaving Lydia back to her house, “She can be a little shameless. Sometimes she forgets how to be personable.”

“Says the guy who sometimes plays death metal at 3am.”

Stiles looked surprised as he leaned back against the arch of the living room doorframe.

“Sometimes I forget to be personable too.”

“I like you just fine.”

Derek didn’t even _try_ to hold back— the words just escaped without him thinking about them. He couldn’t regret them, not with the way Stiles was looking at him. The silence was long, drawn out, but not uncomfortable.

“Earlier when you said you weren’t dating anyone… was that the truth?” Stiles asked.

Derek nodded, smiling, “Entirely the truth.” He didn’t miss the slow, lingering way Stiles’ gazed _raked_ over him. It was like being stripped raw, and he didn’t even care. He couldn’t help but watch the shape of Stiles’ mouth as he bit his lip thoughtfully.

“Good,” he said, pushing off from the doorframe, not breaking their gaze even once as he made his way to the door of his room.

The door shut between them, and Derek exhaled a breath he’d been holding the entire time, unaware.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, and stood there for a few more minutes, unsure what to do with himself, and wondering any of that had actually happened.

*

When he saw the silver Audi in the garage the next morning, it made sense as to why Stiles had driven Lydia home that night.

“You finished with the A6, Ally?” Derek called towards the back of the shop, where he assumed Allison was puttering about.

“Yep! Just got it cleaned up ten minutes before you got in. Owner should be here any minute.”

As the words left her lips, Derek heard the click of heels on the concrete floor, and turned to see Lydia Martin tottering towards him in a green coat and towering nude stilettos. She was just as beautiful as she had been the night before, if not even more so when she had appeared almost harried buy Stiles’ curt manner during lunch. She practically floats, glowing, into the garage.

“Morning Derek,” She grinned, and Allison emerged from the shop, wiping her hands on her dungarees, hair hanging loose. She held out a set of shining keys to Lydia, but pulled them back just before the redhead could grasp them.

“Nuh uh! C’mon through to the office and we’ll get this all paid for,” Allison smiled, turning towards the door into the garage’s administration office where Erica was. Lydia was beaming, obviously used to Allison’s teasing, but Derek saw the moment her face fell, and she faltered in her steps.

Lydia stood stock still, watching Allison disappear through the door with glazed eyes. Derek breathed deep, trying to get a feel for what was wrong, but he couldn’t exactly place the strange emotion that was coming off Lydia in huge waves. It almost wasn’t even an emotion, more of an aura.

“Lydia?” he tested, taking a step forward with his arm outreaching, “Is everything okay?”

She jolted, as if she’d forgotten he was there, and turned quickly on the spot to face him, a very obviously fake smile plastered on her lips. It wasn’t unlike a look Derek had seen on Stiles’ face before. The look of someone who obviously knew something was very wrong, but couldn’t bear to share it.

“Fine! It’s fine. Just remembered something I have to do later. Never mind. I’m going to go pay.” The little smile she gave him had the feel of trying to be genuine, but Lydia seemed rattled as she scurried into the office after Allison, lips curved upward, but a deep line of worry cutting into her forehead.

When she left, she hurried past Derek without a word.

*

Stiles let himself into Lydia’s house via the front door as she had instructed, and found her waiting on the sofa of her living room. He waited in the doorway until she fixed him with a sharp look.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do when Derek finds out about your little secret?”

Stiles blanched, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been expecting this, “Uh, no,” he said, mockingly cheerful, “Because he’s not _going_ to.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed, “You’re the supernatural equivalent of a _serial killer_ , Stiles,” she said, nose wrinkling, “And you’re his housemate. He should know.”

“That’s. Yeah well, not everyone is as accepting of that as you are, Lydia.”

She rolled her eyes, and he took a step forward, keys still clutched in his hands against his hips.

“No, don’t make that face at me. I’m living with him. And guess what, I don’t want to scare him off, okay? I like him. He’s a good guy.”

“Would you rather scare him off now, or in six months,” she cocked her head, a softer affliction to her words, “when you’ve fallen for him?”

Stiles felt something pull in his chest, tight and vice-like around his heart. He huffed, and then sagged in defeat, knowing when he was beaten.

“Too late for that, isn’t it.”

“Oh god,” Lydia whispered, still for a moment before she covered her face with her hands, “Oh _god_.”

“It’s not that bad-”

“God _damnit,_ Stiles. You said you were _drawn_ _to him_ and- Damn! _Damn_ , Stiles. I know why.”

Stiles laughed, but the sound was harsh, mirthless, “You do? Please enlighten me, oh great one. Because it’d be fucking nice to know why I so desperately wants to be around a guy like Derek Hale, a guy who seems to have everything going right for him. Me, of all people!”

“Show me your talisman,” Lydia said, her voice even, emotionless. It was Stiles’ turn to narrow his eyes at her.

“What? Lydia-”

“ _Show me_ your _talisman_ ,” She hissed, standing up and stomping over to where he stood. Stiles rolled his eyes, casually reaching into his back pocket for the miniature diary he kept on him, with a black vinyl cover and the year stamped on the front in flaking gold paint.

Lydia took the diary, flipped through it, to a couple of days in the future. There was only one name there on the page.

 _Allison Argent_.

Stiles squinted at the name and then lifted a shoulder in indifference.

“Okay. So I have a house call. What of it?”

Lydia glared at him, then suddenly she was shoving his chest hard, storming away from him.

“God you are such a _prick_ ,” she wailed, voice getting choked, shielding her eyes as she left the room, and Stiles pushed himself up to follow her, “House call. _House call?!_ You insensitive-”

“Lydia, what the hell.”

“I can’t _believe_ you sometimes, I-”

“Lydia!” he reached out for her shoulder, and she wheeled around vicious.

“ _She’s his best friend!_ ” she screamed, “She’s _my_ friend too!”

Stiles swallowed thickly, feeling his stomach drop as Lydia tried to stifle a sob, in an attempt to rein herself in. It would be nigh impossible for her now. He frantically flipped through the diary to find the page Lydia had shown him, repeating the name in his head until he put the pieces together.

“Allison Argent— Allison— _Ally_ ,” he breathed, “No, oh god. Fuck. No.”

Lydia let out an absolutely pitiful cry, mascara streaming down her cheeks. The sound washed over Stiles in a cold current, and he felt it down to his bones, icy chill.

“How,” Lydia choked.

Stiles closed his eyes, visualizing Allison’s name in his head until he could come up with an answer. One that had already been predetermined. He almost didn’t want to tell Lydia, wanted to make something up, but she always did know when he was lying.

“A mugger. She struggles. He stabs. She’s alone.”

When he opened his eyes, Lydia had curled in on herself in the corner between her refrigerator and dishwasher.

“Why is she in your book?” she whispered.

Not every name appeared in Stiles’ book. Hundreds of people died every day, obviously, but only a certain few came up in ink. Stiles found it ridiculous. Every death was important. Every person meant something to someone, somewhere. He didn’t understand why he had to be there for some and not for the millions of others. He didn’t understand why he had to be there for any at all.

He didn’t _understand._

Stiles placed the diary down on the kitchen table, fist clenched against the page, “Sometimes I have to be there. When it’s significant, I guess.”

“Why is _she_ so significant?”

“You think I know?” he exclaimed, “You think I can comprehend all this stuff? Because I can’t, okay. In case you forgot, the only person who could have told me any of this shit is _dead,_ and if she were alive I wouldn’t need to know! Do you understand the irony of that? I’m going into this blind without her, Lydia! I don’t know _shit_.”

Lydia looks up at him with tortured eyes, sniffs hard.

“Sometimes I can’t believe that something like you actually _exists_.”

The words hit him hard, shaking him right down to his very core. Despite what anyone thought, he was still very much human.

But steadily, he was starting to doubt that.

“Oh screw you, Lydia,” he whispered, “Screw you so hard, I don’t- you say that like its easy, knowing what I am. Fuck that. I was just a _kid_ when it happened. Some idiot thinking he could destroy Death, do mankind a greater good. You think it was easy? Barely nine years old, having to explain to my dad in the middle of the night that he needed to drive me downtown right now, _right now_ , so I could watch someone die? Hardly weeks after we lost her?”

Lydia’s eyes widened like she realized what she was saying, and she reached out, but Stiles talked right over her.

“ _No._ All the friends I lost? The schools I had to drop out of? The towns I had to move to and from. And you can’t believe that some _thing_ like me exists? I’m just doing my job. It’s not _me_ killing people. It’s people killing people. I never asked for this.”

 _Supernatural equivalent of a serial killer_. What _bullshit_. He’s never done _anything_ wrong.

Stiles left her there in her kitchen, snatching his talisman up off the table on his way out and slamming himself into the front seat of his Jeep.

Slowly, he counted to ten, trying to swallow down the panic rising within him as he pulled into the street to make his way back to the house.

When he got home, Derek seemed to be cooking something in the kitchen. It smelled good. Ridiculously so. But Stiles wasn’t hungry, and brushed off any attempts at conversation as he stomped into his room, locking the door up behind him. He opened the newspaper on his desk at the apartment listings with a sigh.

He wouldn’t ever be able to look Derek in the eye again if he just let Allison die.

So it was better to start searching for a new place while he could.

*

Derek wasn’t stupid. It didn’t go right over his head, the fact that both Lydia and Stiles seemed to be acting strangely on the same day. Not only that, but Stiles had come home swathed in an all-encompassing aura of anger and sadness, a hint of familiar perfume trailing him around wherever he went.

It was then that Derek realized (that) he couldn’t sense Lydia or Stiles’ emotions. They didn’t come off as feelings, but as atmospheres. Something clicked into place, something he’d been thinking about, toying with the idea of, for a while now.

Stiles wasn’t human either. At least, not completely.

What human rarely slept? Rarely ate? Stiles seemed to prefer the preparation of food to the actual eating, seemed to enjoy the silence of the night for walking rather than resting. The early still-dark hours of the morning he chose to listen to music and exercise and watch dumb movies at indecent volume levels.

Derek realized suddenly that he hadn’t seen Stiles sleeping once.

The lack of a bed in his room suddenly became more of a pressing matter.

Derek took his pizza out of the oven and cut it into sections, grabbing two beers from the fridge. If he was right in his thinking, Stiles wouldn’t care much for the food, but Derek couldn’t think of a way he could probe for information otherwise.

He’d been standing outside Stiles’ door for near four minutes, debating whether he should knock or not, when the door swung open, and Stiles stood there, looking a little peeved. For the first time in all the weeks Derek had known him, he looked _tired._ The shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and eyes made him appear almost skeletal.

“I could feel you brooding out here,” Stiles muttered, “You wanna come in.”

It wasn’t a question.

“You seem… off. So I brought beer.”

A fond, but sad smile made an appearance on Stiles’ mouth, red lips pulled into a taut line. He stood back, and let Derek into the room.

Derek hadn’t seen the interior of the room much, but it appeared to him to be very _Stiles_ , and simultaneously, _not a bedroom_.

The walls were covered in sketches and drawings in the soft cartoonish style of Stiles’ art. Tattoo plans and comic illustrations were littered everywhere, sad and mournful portraits interspersed between.

On a computer desk, there was a laptop and a graphics tablet strewn across the surface, charcoals and paints shoved into a box underneath. On the other side of the room there was a wicker couch, a small coffee table, and his music collection. It wasn’t a lot but it was more than Derek thought was in there.

They sat down on the couch and Derek put the plate of pizza on the coffee table. Stiles took the beer but didn’t touch the pizza, which Derek had expected.

“Talk,” Derek said nudging Stiles’ thigh with his knee, and sinking more comfortably into the wicker. Which _was_ in fact, surprisingly comfortable.

“I don’t know if I can,” Stiles frowned, took a deep breath, and completely bowled Derek over by adding, “I think I need to move out.”

Derek opened his mouth, but then closed it again, and looked down at his beer with a frown.

“Does this have something to do with what you are? What you and _Lydia_ are?”

Stiles went utterly still for maybe forty of the longest seconds of Derek’s life, before slowly turning his head.

“You know what we are?”

Derek sighed and shook his head, “I had some suspicions that you weren’t ‘normal’ – whatever that is anymore. You just confirmed it though. I don’t know _what_ you are.”

“I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. I need to move out,” Stiles again, quieter, trying to stand up, but Derek reached out and, with a hand against his chest, pushed him back down.

“Stiles, talk to me. We’ve got a really good thing here,” he said, “You honestly think you need to go because of this? Because you’re not human? Or, at least not _entirely_ human.”

“No,” Stiles murmured, his hands coming up to his face as if he were praying, voice shaking, “No, I need to go, because I don’t want to see you get hurt, Derek. I honestly like you too much.”

Derek put his bottle down on the floor next to the couch, frowning as Stiles tried to leave again, and this time Derek caught his hand, reeling him back in, “Stiles. C’mon, don’t.”

“ _Derek._ ”

“I don’t want to see you leave,” Derek said, and the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile, as if he couldn’t resist saying it, “I honestly like you too much.”

But Stiles face just crumpled, like it was the worst and best thing Derek could have said.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered, and Derek stood up, drawing him closer. “Fuck, this is-”

“Stay with me,” he lifted his hand to Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles jerked back, like he was about to try walking away again.

“This is stupid,” he murmured, all the while leaning into Derek’s touch. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” Derek agreed, “I don’t. And I won’t, unless you help me.”

Stiles bit his lip, swaying as if struggling with whatever decisions he was making in his head. Derek saw the exact moment he said _fuck it_ and leaned forward, his hands cupping Derek’s cheeks and pulling him in, sealing their mouths together.

Kissing Stiles, getting him to stay just that much longer, felt like a victory to Derek, like he Derek might actually mean something, and he let himself sink into the touch, the taste, and everything else about Stiles.

Stiles opened his lips on a sigh, curling his fingers into Derek’s hair and tugging just so, pulling him in tighter as Derek took it upon himself to deepen the kiss— and then Stiles made a quiet noise of discontent, pushing at Derek’s chest a little and squirming away.

“No,” he mumbled, “bad idea.”

“I don’t think you believe that,” Derek said, swiping a thumb over his lower lip, “Because I sure don’t. You kissed me first.”

Stiles was frowning deeply, but Derek somehow didn’t feel that it was aimed at him. Then his eyes softened, and Derek felt his second victory.

“I’ll kiss you second too,” Stiles murmured, surging forward again, drawing Derek into his mouth.

Stiles’ kiss the second time around was suddenly more ferocious and held more intent than before. He slid his tongue into Derek’s mouth, and Derek put his hands on Stiles’s waist and then his hips and his ass, touching any part of Stiles that he could reach. This time, Stiles’ noises were the opposite of discontent, they were little sighs of pleasure, tilting his hips forward into Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes strayed to Stiles’ wicker sofa. He wanted so much, and this wasn’t the place.

“You wanna take this to another room maybe?”

“Yeah, hell yes,” Stiles murmured, “You mean your bedroom, right?”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

Stiles let out a slight yelp as Derek caught him around the thighs, hoisted him up around his waist. His shriek turned into a laugh however, as he angled his face down for another kiss, Derek taking him into the bedroom just across the hall.

Stiles began pulling his shirt off as he landed on the bed, bouncing a little, and Derek got to see the full extent of the tattoos that wound up his forearms, but no further than that. They were like intricate(,) ink gloves, the tails of each elaborate pattern curling around his knuckles and the base of his fingers.

Stiles hesitated with his hands outstretched towards Derek, eyes flickering down to his tattoos, and he blushed, pulling his hands back.

“I like them,” Derek said softly, “I’ve just never seen them in full before. You always wear long sleeves.”

“I’m not wearing any sleeves now,” Stiles said, shrugging a shoulder. Then suddenly, a mischievous look came across his face, and he started to undo the button on his jeans, wriggling out of them. Derek’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Stiles’ cock as it swayed towards his stomach, flushed and full already. “In fact,” Stiles smiles, “I’m not wearing anything at all.”

“Smooth,” Derek said, voice steady despite his thundering heart, and Stiles’ smile turned into a fully blown grin as he leaned back on his elbows.

“Gonna stand and stare all day or do you want to fuck me?”

“Probably the latter,” Derek said, placing a knee on the edge of the mattress between Stiles’ thighs, and letting Stiles tug his sweater off, work the belt, the jeans.

“Probably.”

Derek leaned down, tucking his face into the hollow beneath Stiles’ jaw, mouth against the soft skin of Stiles’ pale, delicate neck. Stiles tipped his head back a little farther, and Derek felt like someone had a grip around his heart, and was squeezing. Stiles _had_ to know what that meant. There was no way he couldn’t.

Submission. _Trust_.

“You won’t go?” he asked, his lips pressed to the notch of Stiles’ throat. Maybe he sounded a little desperate. It might have been ridiculous. But he still asked. He needed to ask it.

Stiles’ hand carded through his hair, the touch so much more intimate than Derek had expected. It made him tremble.

“Give me a reason to stay.”

Derek grunted low in his throat, getting a hand around Stiles’ waist and flipping him over onto his stomach, dragging him back by the hips, man-handling him into position. Stiles made a squeak of protest, before groaning in quiet approval as Derek pushed him down by the shoulders, ass in the air. Derek laid two heavy hands on him, a palm against each cheek, gently spreading him.

Stiles moaned into the covers, pushing his hips up into Derek’s hands, fingers curling in the sheets, only getting louder as Derek licked broadly from his balls all the way up to the pink little ring of muscle tensing against his tongue.

He’d had a feeling that Stiles would make the most delicious noises, but he was in no way prepared for the real thing.

Stiles’ moans were filthy, ridiculous, like he’d been starved of touch for so long that he’d forgotten how to hold it all in. Derek ate him out eagerly, sloppily, feeling Stiles slowly opening up to his tongue. He tasted almost exactly like he smelled, that sweet, human, heavy scent , of salt and flesh, but down there it was darker and thicker, flooded with arousal. Derek could drown in it; he didn’t know how humans coped with their dulled senses. Not when someone could smell, _taste_ , like this. It made him want to trap Stiles beneath him, never let him go.

“ _Fuck_ , Derek,” Stiles called out, a hand reaching back and curling into Derek’s hair, tugging hard, pressing him closer as his cry turned into a choked moan, and he rode his hips back against Derek’s face, “Fuck, I need you right now, _please_.”

Derek drew back, pressing his thumbs in against Stiles’ loosened opening. His skin was pink with the friction from Derek’s beard, bruised from too-tightly grasping fingers. He looked thoroughly wrecked already and Derek wasn’t half finished with him.

“You look so… Fuck, okay. Let’s-” Derek swallowed his words and backed up a little, reaching for the lube he kept down next to his bed, the condoms in his bedside locker. Quickly, he slicked up his fingers, bypassing one and sliding two straight in. Stiles groaned like the air was being punched out of his lungs, but the grin on his face as he bit down on his lip was perfect.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathed, curling his foot around the back of Derek’s thigh, “C’mon, give me another. More.”

Derek thrust his fingers in and out a few more times before slipping in a third, goose bumps on his skin at the sound of Stiles keening and rocking against him. It wasn’t long before he was ready, muttering, directing Derek to where he wanted him.

“Like this?” Derek asked, shaky hands rolling the condom down his dick. Stiles pushed himself up on equally shaking limbs, flopping over onto his back.

“N-No. Like this. Want my legs over your shoulders.”

The fact that Stiles was so confident in his flexibility made Derek groan as he crawled up, curling his hands under Stiles’ knees and yanking him towards him. Stiles lifted his ankles, heels of his feet against Derek’s shoulders, and Derek leaned over him, practically bending him in half.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured, curling his fingers in the hair at the back of Derek’s head, pulling him down for a kiss as Derek sank inside him.

Stiles gave as good as he got, deliciously greedy, as he received and reciprocated Derek’s thrusts, and the heat of him was almost maddening. They’d barely begun and Derek was already feverish with want – he’d been ready for this the moment he set eyes on Stiles. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something had just clicked into place the moment they met, like flint stones bumping and snapping together every day since then, finally sparking and igniting now.

“Feel that?” He asked quietly, and Stiles just moaned, his head falling back, mouth open and red.

“Feel _you_ ,” he said, and Derek wasn’t sure if Stiles was _getting_ it, understanding, but didn’t care because he looked too lost for anything resembling coherent thought, let alone anything deeper. One of his legs slipped, and Derek caught his knee in the crook of his arm. Apparently the angle was just right for Stiles, because his back arched up like a tightly drawn bowstring, and he choked out Derek’s name as he came between them, shuddering hard, brows drawn, eyes closed and lips parted.

Derek, overwhelmed and unable to resist the decadent heat where he was buried deep, followed too with a biting kiss against Stiles’ open mouth as Stiles giggled.

Fast and intense, it was the only way he’d ever known Stiles to be, and Derek wasn’t surprised that together, like this, he wasn’t any different.

*

Derek woke to find Stiles sitting upright in the bed next to him, worrying his thumb between his teeth. He did a slight double take, smiling when he saw Derek was awake.

“Hi,” he said softly, slinking down to Derek’s level, laying his head on the pillow.

“Hi,” Derek said in return, his hand reaching out and finding Stiles’ hip beneath the covers. His skin was cool and smelled like soap, a wet mop of hair sweeping across his brow, “You showered.”

“I had come all over me,” Stiles said, arching an eyebrow.

Derek smiled, a little smug as he tugged Stiles closer. Stiles only resisted a bit before allowing himself to curl in beneath Derek’s chin, fingers stroking over his chest.

“Did you sleep at all?” Derek asked, and he swore he felt Stiles’ scoff.

“No.”

Derek turned his nose into Stiles’ hair, breathing in the clean scent, but also Stiles’ usual _human_ smell underneath. Despite what was said earlier, it was hard to believe Stiles wasn’t just another normal person.

“Does that have to do with what we spoke about earlier?” Derek asked, “About why you wanted to leave?”

Stiles nodded, hiding his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, “I should have just gone. This is worse.”

Derek pulled back quickly, his heart sinking like a stone.

“Are you regretting-?”

“No!” Stiles scrambled backwards, pushing away from Derek, but only to look him in the eye, “Not at all. Now, I don’t _want_ to leave. No, you were _there_. We were- You have to know I could never regret that. I’ve never- it was so…”

“Yeah,” Derek said, nodding, “I know.”

Stiles frowned holding out his hands to Derek, palms up. Derek laid his hands in Stiles’, surprised to find Stiles’ hands longer than his. More slender, but bigger.

“Why don’t you sleep, Stiles?” he asked, and seeing the downcast look on Stiles’ face, probed, “Have you _ever_ slept?”

“Used to. When I was a kid. Before. It’s harder now.”

Derek frowned, shaking his head a little. He didn’t understand.

“Explain it to me. Please?”

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded, sliding down in the bed until the covers reached his armpits, and he folding his arms across his chest.

“My mom was— They called her a Harbinger. Of death, of sorrow.”

Derek raised a brow, “Like… a Banshee?”

“Not exactly, no.” Stiles shook his head, and amended “Well, it’s of that family. Like how there are werewolves and also werecoyotes, werejaguars, werefoxes— there are, I guess, ‘subspecies’ of our kind too.”

Derek looked Stiles over, thinking how gaunt he looked suddenly, in the dim light of the room. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes dark, mouth drawn. Still beautiful, but bruised looking.

“Banshees are women,” Derek pointed out. “Lydia.”

Stiles nodded, “Yeah, Lydia.”

“What are you?”

“Don’t really know,” Stiles shrugged, twisting up the sheets in his hands, “When the Harbringer dies, the duty is passed on to the next woman in the bloodline. There was none when my mom died.”

“Just you,” Derek said, and Stiles bobbed his head affirmatively.

“I don’t know what I am. Lydia has names for it. Death. Reaper. I don’t like it.”

Something about the words left a chill in Derek’s bones, and he pulled the sheet up over his shoulders a little, and the frown on Stiles’ face deepened.

“Do you… control death? Why people die?”

“I don't control death, I don’t kill people. People kill people,” Stiles murmured, “I'm just acutely aware of it.”

Derek turned his head slightly, questioningly, “How-“

“It's like,” Stiles took a breath, “Lydia, as a banshee, can sense death, she feels it. I just _know_ it. It’s different.”

“I don't understand.”

“Yeah, nobody does,” Stiles whispers, exasperated, sitting upright in the bed, “Which is why I need to leave.” He sounded exhausted, sounded like this wasn’t the first time he’d been here before, having to explain a situation that didn’t even make sense to himself.

“Wait,” Derek sat up too, watching Stiles go in search of his clothes, “I said I don’t understand, not that I’m not _trying_. This is a lot to take in. I’ve never heard of- of what you are. Of who you are.”

“Derek, I barely understand this myself. All I know is that I know people are going to die,” Stiles said, hopping into his jeans, yanking them up his legs, “D’you know hard it is to look people in the eye when you know their loved ones are going to bite the dust?”

Derek perched at the edge of the mattress, hands steepled over his mouth, head swimming. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. Stiles’ hand was already on the door.

“Who is it?” Derek asked. Stiles froze, twisting slightly and fixing Derek with a look that could only be described as deer-in-headlights. Derek took a long look at Stiles right there and then, slender and skittish, doe-eyed, prey-like. It was hard to believe he was anything dangerous, anything sinister at all.

“What,” Stiles breathed.

“You said earlier, you don’t want to _see_ me get hurt. Because you can’t look at me when you know someone I love is going to die,” Derek frowned, his voice taking a hard edge, “So who is it?” He didn’t want to know, but he could barely control himself. His hands shook, and he clenched them into fists in a vain attempt at stopping them as he watched Stiles.

Stiles backed up against the doorjamb, mouth covered as the most pitiful noise Derek had ever heard escaped him. He shook his head quickly, choked out a _sorry_ , and before Derek had even got to the door, he could hear the engine of Stiles’ Jeep, brakes squealing as he pulled out of the driveway.

*

Lydia opened the door to find a shaking mess of what she might call her best friend.

“I ran,” Stiles croaked, “Shit, I left. I didn’t know where to come I know you’re mad at me but oh gods I fucked up so bad, Lydia, I-”

Lydia stood back from the door to let Stiles inside, and he choked out a quiet sob, shaking his head rapidly.

“You look a mess, Stilinski,” she said, hard, but with a hint of fondness in her voice as she followed him into her sitting room and watched him curl into a ball on the sofa.

“Not all of us can elegantly weep our hearts out,” Stiles bit out, muffled by a throw pillow.

“Shoes off the couch.”

His Vans _thunked_ down to the floor next to him as he toed them off and resumed his foetal position.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“I’m a dick. I’m such a huge dick, oh my god.”

Lydia sighed shifted her feet, unsure what to do.

“You told him?”

“I’m so bad at explaining. But I tried. And he tried to understand but - he figured it out. I said something stupid earlier and he just connected it back to me, and now he knows someone is going to die. I fucked up so much,” Stiles whined, burying his face in under his arms.

“What… what do you need me to do?” Lydia asked, shifting her feet back and forth. She’d never seen Stiles like this, so agitated, so inconsolable. Hell, she’d never even seen him cry. Not like this. She could handle Stiles’ panicking, but she didn’t really know how to handle _this._

“I don’t- I don’t wanna go back there.”

“You don’t have to,” Lydia said gently, footsteps clacking as she meandered into the kitchen. “I’ll send someone over for your things. I’ll go over myself if I have to.”

Stiles lifted his head as she came back into the room and set a cup down in front of him. Earl Grey, in a delicate mug.

“You’re the best,” he said quietly, sitting up, “I can’t believe I just came in here and. Wow. Lydia, I’m sorry about earlier. I was a grade A asshole.”

“It’s _okay_ , Stiles,” she said firmly, pushing the tea towards him, and Stiles took it with shaky hands.

“It’s not. I just left you and walked out. We were both upset but Allison’s your friend and, _shit_. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Lydia frowned, drumming her fingers against her leg carefully.

“You don’t know the full story about Allison and Derek, do you?”

Stiles’ head jerked up, tea splashing as he came to attention.

“Allison and Derek? Were they-”

“No,” Lydia scoffed, “No, never like _that._ No, Allison comes from a family of _hunters_. There was always a tension, a rivalry between the Argents and the Hales. Derek and Allison grew up very differently. Derek was taught to be wary but respectful of the Argents, Allison was taught to not interact with such lowly scum as werewolves.”

“What,” Stiles breathed, “That’s-”

“Ridiculous!” Lydia agreed, “But it’s the way Gerard ran his family. Luckily, dear lovely Christopher, Allison’s father, realised the old coot was already all aboard the train to crazy town. He’s in a long term care unit now, and Chris is trying to fix things between the Argents and the Hales.”

“But Derek and Allison took the first step,” Stiles connected the pieces in his mind, and Lydia nodded encouragingly.

“Allison is such a sweet, fierce, good soul. She could never follow Gerard’s regime. She and Derek were friends before the ‘treaty’ even began. It caused a bit of a stir at first, because of the age difference. But then they opened the shop together and established themselves as business partners. Been best friends, right from the start.”

Stiles felt sick to his stomach, thinking that something like that could be taken from Derek, a friendship like that. Allison was a good soul, and so was Derek, kind and helpful and caring.

And Stiles had just _left_ him there.

“I need to do something,” Stiles said, suddenly.

“Have you ever tried stopping a death before?” Lydia asked, and Stiles shook his head. Lydia’s eyebrow ticked upward, “ _Never_?”

“It’s never felt wrong before now. It always felt like— I never knew them, before.”

“You don’t know Allison.”

“I know enough,” he said, pulling the little black diary from his back pocket, running his fingers over the year stamped on the front, the gold flaking away under his fingers. At the end of the year, the numbers would flit away completely, refreshed with a new date. The pages would be blank. It’d be like a whole new diary. Stiles had jokingly called it his ‘horcrux’ in the past, but now he just felt sick looking at it.

“My mom’s talisman was a crystal ball. She loved the irony.”

Lydia laughed softly, catching his eye, “I wish I’d known her.”

“Me too,” Stiles said under his breath.

“Yours is kind of ironic too. Your little black book. Filled with conquests.”

Stiles smiled sadly and placed the book deliberately on the coffee table.

“What if I locked it away. Never looked at it and lived a regular life.”

“You’d still feel the pull,” Lydia said, “Like wolves and the moon. Like me and the whispers, witches and the earth. You’ll always feel it.”

“But I won’t have to see their names,” he said, frowning down at the book, tapping it with his finger. Even with it sitting just two feet away, he had the urge to put it back in his pocket, keep it close to his body. He wasn’t strong or powerful like his mother had been, he couldn’t bear to be away from his talisman. He was just a hybrid, an atrocity, something that was never meant to be.

“I hate what I am,” he whispered, and Lydia’s face crumpled as she got up to sit with him, curling into his side, picking up his face in her hands.

“Well, I love what you are, mourning gloves and all,” she said, and Stiles’ hands clenched tightly at the hem of his shirt, tendons shifting beneath his lacily inked wrists, “So does your father, and you know if he saw you like this he’d be telling you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and live the life you have.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, still frowning, still leaning into Lydia’s side a little too heavily, “Yeah, I just gotta— Lydia, I have to do something for Allison. The more I think about it, the more wrong it feels. There has to be a way to change it.”

“Usually, the simplest methods are the most overlooked.”

Stiles lifted his head, brow furrowed in confusion. What option had they overlooked?

“What do we do?” he asked.

Lydia smiled, catching his chin between her thumb and forefinger, wagging gently.

“We simply tell her.”

*

_Stiles found his mother curled up in the large armchair in her study, frowning at the large orb on the cover of her desk. Her laptop lay open in front of her, the screensaver bouncing lazily across the monitor. Her eyes were glassy, unfocussed, but as his foot came down on the creaky board just past the threshold, she lifted her head, and smiled._

_“Hey honey,” she said, stretching out a hand, and he walked over, curled up in her lap in a way no eight year old boy would ever admit he enjoyed. Claudia wrapped her arms around him, and he rested his hands on her delicate wrists, on the dark maroon and black patterns there twisting around her fingers._

_“What did you see?” he asked, although he knew she couldn’t tell him anything specific, “Something bad?”_

_“Well. Nothing good,” she replied simply, and Stiles squinted hard at the crystal ball, looking for any hint of what his mother might see in it. Instead he only saw his own twisted, inverted reflection._

_“Do you know them?”_

_“Extremely well.”_

_“Can’t you stop it from happening?”_

_Claudia sighed deeply, resting her chin on her son’s shoulder and looking at the ball._

_“Couldn’t if I tried. Anyway, it’s best not to tamper with the course of nature, hon. You never know how the balance may try to restore itself.”_

_Stiles nodded. Yes, he was only eight, but he_ understood _, and because there was so much that she felt she couldn’t tell him, Claudia always tried to answer questions when she could._

_“Hey,” Claudia perked up, reaching out for the mouse of her PC, moving it until the screen saver stopped twisting around on the monitor. “Let’s give your uncle Nikita a call on Skype, see how your Babushka is doing?”_

_“She still sick?” Stiles worried, frowning as he watched his mother logging into her account and adjusting the webcam._

_“Yeah,” Claudia frowned, her mouth a thin line, “She is.”_

_“I hope she gets better soon,” Stiles said, quietly, “She’s been sick for a long time.”_

_Claudia didn’t reply. And Stiles knew._

*

The next morning Lydia dragged Stiles down to the auto repair shop to talk to Allison. Despite the fact that Stiles had been living with Derek for nearly two months, his nocturnal schedule (nocturnal being used loosely here) had pretty much prevented him from learning that much about Derek’s life. Sure he mentioned some people – Allison and Boyd were the most frequently named, sometimes Isaac and Erica and Scott. But beyond their first names, Stiles had never met any of Derek’s friends.

“You’re very pale,” Lydia commented, and Stiles curled in on himself in her passenger seat.

“Nervous,” he muttered, “ I’ve never had to do this before. My mom once said not to tamper with the course of nature and I can’t help wonder if this falls into that category.”

Lydia glanced sideways at him, indicated and turned left, “How so?”

“When she said it, my grandmother was ill. I asked her if she could, and she said she couldn’t if she tried. That it was best not to tamper with the course of nature, because _‘you never know how the balance may try to restore itself.”_

“Huh,” Lydia said, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, “You’re having second thoughts?”

“I just can’t help wonder. She said she couldn’t if she tried. I can’t tell if it was because Babushka was dying naturally, or because she was all the way back in Russia, or what.”

“Nature taking its course was your Babushka dying of old age,” Lydia reiterated, “And you don’t think it’s possible to change that.”

Stiles nodded, “Yeah. But being stabbed to death in an alley is in no way natural.”

Lydia winced, and Stiles felt a pang of guilt, frowning down at his lap. Naturally, he found it easier to talk candidly about death than other people. Even now, he was in a place where he could speak about his mother without blinking an eye – he still missed her terribly, but it was less painful. Part of the reason that he and Lydia were drawn together was her familiarity with the subject, the blood of a Banshee in her veins similar to Stiles’ Harbinger genes.

If this were any other person, Lydia would be able to talk back and forth with him easily, clinically, efficiently. But it was a friend of Lydia’s they were talking about. Stiles would have to keep that in mind.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It is what it is,” she muttered, pulling up outside Silver Bullet Auto Repairs. Stiles could already feel his throat closing up with panic, and squeezed his eyes shut. It’d been years since he’d had an attack, back when he was in college, in New York with Lydia. He wasn’t going to relapse now. No way.

He felt her hand on his knee, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Lydia dragged him by the hand past the pretty blonde at the administration desk (sparing her a wave and a smile) and straight into the workshop out back. There was a red Mercedes up on the lift, and Stiles jumped back as a pretty brunette rolled out from under it, nearly tripping him up.

“Lydia?” the girl smiled, tucking her hair back behind her ear, “Back so soon? Nothing wrong with the car I hope.”

The girl stood up, brushing off her oil-smudged dungarees to no avail. Stiles felt his stomach lurch. This had to be her. This was Allison.

One look from Lydia confirmed it.

“Not with the car,” she said softly, “Ally, my friend Stiles and I were wondering if we could talk to you?”

Allison turned her liquid gaze on Stiles, open and warm, and her mouth opened in surprise.

“Stiles? As in, Derek’s Stiles?”

“Uh-” Stiles began, taken aback by the recognition, “I guess. I mean. We’re friends, me and Derek. Um.”

“Oh,” Allison looked a little confused, “I thought. Never mind. You look really familiar, actually. You ever lived in San Francisco?”

Lydia shot Allison a surprised look, and then Stiles too, as he took a slight step back.

“Yeah… yes,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “Until I was 9 or 10, I guess.” Stiles had been nine years, three months and four days old when he left San Francisco. He knew that for a fact.

“Did you go to Lincoln Elementary?”

“Jesus, yeah,” Stiles said, raising an eyebrow, “How…?”

Allison beamed, “Stilinski. I remember you! I was in the fourth grade, just a year above you. I remember your mom-” Allison froze mid-sentence, a look of horror coming across her face, “I remember your mom.”

Stiles shot her a gentle smile, nodding. All of this felt wrong.

“It’s fine,” he said. People always got nervous when they brought up his mom. It’s not like Stiles would ever be _over_ her death, but it was easier now, and he didn’t want Allison to feel uncomfortable. Part of the reason he and his dad left was because of the disturbance her murder created within their community in the city. That, and a smaller town meant it was less often that Stiles needed to be driven around, less often he felt the pull of a nearby death. Those nights were always hard on his dad.

“So what did you do after you left the city?” Allison questioned, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, uh, my dad and I moved here after mom died. I went to school here, went to BHHS, and then Coumbia where I met Lydia. Came back here after college, Lydia came with me,” Stiles explained, turning his head towards Lydia and sharing a slight smile with her.

“Cute,” Allison cooed, “I’m glad everything worked out for you, Stiles.”

_Wrong wrong wrong._

“You too, Allison,” Stiles said, feeling a little sad as he took in her bright eyes smile, how young, and vibrant, and beautiful she was, “Weird how we both ended up here, huh?”

“I moved not long after you,” Allison said, “But I guess we never crossed paths because my aunt home-schooled me, and I went to college in Davis.”

“Makes sense,” Stiles nodded, “Listen, Allison, we really need to talk to you in private for a moment. Not out here in the open. I know this seems all sorts of weird and crazy, but I need you to trust me.”

Allison laughed shortly, shrugged a shoulder, “Sure, why not. But I gotta warn you, nothing strikes me as particularly weird or crazy anymore. I’m friends with three werewolves and a banshee. Dating a were too.”

Stiles felt a pang of relief. Maybe, just maybe, this would make what they were about to tell her just a little more believable.

*

Derek could _feel_ the commotion coming from inside the shop before he even got out of his car. He passed through the main entrance, throwing a furtive glance at Erica behind the desk. Erica had the phone pressed to her ear, frowning deeply as she jerked her head towards the back, and Derek rushed through.

His stomach bottomed out when he saw Stiles, gripping Allison’s elbow as she tried to squirm away from him.

“Don’t,” she shrieked at him, swatted him away, and Stiles ducked her blows, trying to stop her from leaving.

“Allison, please,” Lydia appeared then, looking just a panicked as Stiles and Allison, “Calm down.”

“What the hell is going on?” Derek asked loudly, and Stiles dropped Allison’s arm, stepping back with wide eyes.

“This is _sick_ ,” Allison choked out, eyes brimming, “You’re _sick_.”

Stiles looked miserably from Allison to Derek, and Derek hadn’t thought his heart could sink any more-- but.

“No. Not Allison. Please tell me it’s not Allison.”

Can’t be. _It can’t be._

Stiles stared down at his shoes, and Allison made a choked noise.

“What do you _mean_?” she cried, “You knew?”

“Not until now, Ally, I swear,” Derek held his hands out, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“I’m trying to help,” Stiles croaked, a desperate edge on his voice, “I’m trying to stop it from happening, please listen to me.”

Allison rounded on him furiously, and Stiles actually flinched back against the car lift. Derek didn’t blame him, because he knew just how fierce, how terrifying Allison could be.

“You come in here and tell me I’m going to _die_. That it’ll be _soon_ , and it will be _violent_ , and you think you’re helping? If you’re even telling the truth, I have a _day_ to live, and you think you’re helping?!”

“It _is_ the truth,” Stiles fought back, seemingly regaining his courage and stepping forward, “I’m trying to stop you getting killed by walking down dark alleys on your own!”

There was a resounding smack that made even Derek recoil as Allison slapped Stiles across the face, hard. It almost seemed like an overreaction, and entirely out of character. Derek took one look at the shock on Allison’s face and saw that she was surprised too.

“ _Hey_ ,” Lydia stepped in, “Don’t _do_ that. He’s telling the truth.”

Stiles clutched his cheek, swaying back. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, eyes flooding. Derek couldn’t tell if it was from the pain of the slap of the stress of the situation. Panic radiated off of Stiles in huge tsunami waves. It was overwhelming.

“I’m trying to help,” he repeated, his voice barely reaching above a whisper, “I swear.”

Allison seemed to sway on the spot, before she let out a lot sob, backing away with her hands cupped over her face.

“What _are_ you?” she cried, “Why would you— _why_? What are you?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles wailed back, “You think I know? It’s not _natural_. It’s not even supernatural, I’m a freaking _abomination_.”

Derek could only watch as his distressed friend and his ex-housemate glared each other down. Stiles’ jaw was set determinedly, but he was shaking just as much as Allison, who just took several quick steps backwards.

“Stay away from me,” she said firmly, breaking away from the group. Derek thought about going after her, but fell back in line as she shot him a glare, jumped into her car, and pulled away from the garage, tires squealing on the asphalt.

There was a beat of silence before Stiles took off too, stomping out after her, slamming into the passenger seat of Lydia’s car.

“That went well,” Lydia sighed, and threw Derek an apologetic look before she followed Stiles out into the yard, getting in her car and leaving the parking lot. Derek sighed too, turning around to find an inquisitive Erica in the doorway to the main building.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask,” Derek admitted, “I couldn’t explain if I tried.”

*

Stiles sulked all the way to Lydia’s, slinking down in the passenger seat with his fingers pressed to his temples.

“You know why we overlooked the ‘ _simply tell her_ ’ option? Because it was fucking stupid.”

Lydia frowned at him, knowing that Stiles only swore at her when he was really _truly_ livid. Like the other night when they had argued in her kitchen.

“Stiles, I _know_ Allison. You’ve planted seed in her mind. She might not entirely believe you but she’ll be more careful.”

Stiles frowned down at his feet against the floor as Lydia parked the car.

“Can I hang out in your spare room again?”

“It’s all yours,” Lydia agreed, “Do you want a drink of something?”

“Nah,” Stiles hummed, following her up to the door, “I- I think I might try sleep.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow and turned, “Stiles, you haven’t slept for more than a few hours aggregate in all the years I’ve known you.”

“Isn’t that crazy, though?” Stiles laughed, “Shouldn’t I be dead a thousand times over?”

“I try not to question the supernatural,” Lydia hummed, stepping into her foyer. “Why anything? Why is Derek compelled to run naked through the woods every month by a giant chunk of rock that orbits another giant chunk of rock?”

“Please don’t talk about Derek naked,” Stiles frowned, and shrugged off his coat, getting a foot on the bottom step of the stairs. Lydia frowned sympathetically.

“We never talked about that, you know. You and Derek. And I know that must have been hard for you. You haven’t been with anyone in a long time and-” Lydia cut herself off mid-sentence, seeing the way Stiles sunk down onto the bottom stair, and put his head in his hands. “Do you want to talk?”

Stiles rubbed his face and groaned, flopping back on the stairs in a way that must have been painful. Lydia took a seat next to him, leaning against the banister.

“I flirted too much. He flirted back. We fucked. That’s all,” he said, “That’s the last six weeks of my life in a nutshell.”

“You’re telling me it wasn’t crazy intense and you didn’t choke out his name, sobbing as you fell apart under his hands and the world shifted beneath your feet?”

Stiles glared.

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, standing and stomping up the stairs.

“I’m not hearing a no,” Lydia called after him, “You have to open up sometime or you’re never going to be happy.”

She heard the door of the guest room slam closed, and Lydia scowled down at her shoes, taking a minute before she got to her feet and decided to get started on lunch. She didn’t even have to pretend to be a good hostess, because it wasn’t like her guest was likely to get hungry anyway.

Stiles slept for six hours straight – for the first time in maybe sixteen years – but woke up feeling worse than before. His dreams were fitful and unclear, unsettling him even further than he’d managed to make himself already.

When he dragged himself downstairs it was late, and Derek was in the kitchen.

Stiles looked between him and Lydia, _feeling_ his mouth pulling down into a frown as he said, “What are you doing here,” and hating the way his voice caught as he stepped back into the doorframe.

“I’ll… I’ll leave you two to talk,” Lydia murmured, and Stiles shot her the dirtiest look he could muster.

Once she was gone, Derek finally met Stiles’ eye. Stiles dropped his own gaze almost immediately.

“I figured you wouldn’t be coming back to the house. So I brought some of your stuff. It’s in a big box in the living room. You didn’t have much.”

“I was gonna send someone over,” Stiles said, quietly but not ungraciously, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Derek cocked his head slightly, “It was no problem,” he said, looking at Stiles as if he was sizing him up, and Stiles felt his cheeks heat up, thinking that Derek didn’t _need_ to size him up, already knew him so intimately.

Stiles swallowed thickly, went for it, “Have you talked to Allison?”

Derek nodded, “Well, she did most of the talking. Or shouting. She’s scared.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Terrified,” Derek admitted, and for the first time, his voice sounded weak, “I can’t lose her, Stiles. She’s- she’s so. She’s my-”

“I know,” Stiles said, fists clenching with frustration, “And I tried Derek, I swear. I’m so sorry. Whatever happens now? You _have_ to know I’m sorry.”

Derek was silent for a long time, watching Stiles hovering awkwardly. Stiles, who couldn’t even lift his head to look at him, pale and sickly looking, more so than ever.

“I think there’s been a wire or two crossed in our line of communication,” Derek said, calculatingly.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” Stiles asked, finally meeting his eye again.

Derek nodded, “Yeah. But I’m not sure you understand why.”

“No? I think it’s pretty clear,” Stiles laughed, the sound mirthless and more self-deprecating than anything.

“Stiles, I’m not mad because of Allison. You said it yourself. You can’t control it, you just _know_ it, you know that she’s-” Derek cleared his throat, looking pained, like he couldn’t even say the words. So he didn’t. “And I’m not mad at you for that.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m mad that you ran out. I’m mad that you didn’t stay and try explain, that you would just have sex with me and leave, because I didn’t think you were that guy. I’m mad that you thought so little of me that you thought I would blame you for what’s happening.”

Stiles was shaking as he repressed the urge to sob, the silent tremors wracking his body.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, throat tight, “I’m-”

“Lydia said that you’ve never done what you did today. Tried to warn someone.”

Stiles shook his head violently.

“Felt wrong not to. It felt- it’s never felt like this.”

“It’s never felt like this,” Derek repeated, eyes soft. “Stiles, why did you warn Allison?”

“Told you,” Stiles bit out, “It _felt wrong_. I’ve never _known_ who the victim was before. I couldn’t- couldn’t let her just go. Not when she’s your friend. Not when I want to be her friend too. Not when I wanted to be with you.”

“Wanted,” Derek said, “Past tense.”

“Want!” Stiles shouts, “Want! I want you. Jesus, of course I do. But I have to use past tense now don’t I? It’s in the past. I have to convince myself that I don’t want you anymore because it makes having had you and not having you anymore just that much easier? Christ.”

“I _never_ said that.”

“What.”

“I never said that you didn’t have me.”

“I-”

“You ran out, Stiles. I didn’t get to say anything. You left. That’s why I’m mad.”

Stiles’ face fell, something like self-pity settling in his stomach. Frustration, for Derek’s sake more than his own.

“You can’t still want me. Why would you want me? You barely know me, or what I am. Fuck, I barely know. And there’s all the other shit on top of that. I panic. I get angry easily. I get _depressed-_ ” his voice fell to a whisper, and he bit his lip, “I _hate_ that word. But that’s what it is. And it’s worse because I don’t sleep to escape it. When I sleep, I end up like this,” Stiles gestured down the length of his body, “Empty and- and sad? Being with you won’t fix that.”

Derek shook his head.

“I don’t care about that, Stiles. I don’t want to ‘fix’ you, whatever you think that means. Your faults are what make you _human_.”

Stiles’ back hit the doorjamb, and he crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself together as his breath caught in his throat and his stomach lurched. Derek was so much better off without him, Stiles just didn’t know how he could make Derek understand that.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

Derek sent him a sad smile, nodded. “Think about it. Think about what you _want_ to say. I’m going to go now, to go see Allison again.”

“Okay,” Stiles breathed.

“I’m still angry at you.”

“Thought as much,” Stiles nodded, stepping back so that he could let Derek past, “Thanks for bringing some of my stuff.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Words that should have just been a friendly sentiment between two friends, but they made Stiles’ heart sink like a stone. The morbidity of what Derek said hung in the air, until finally he turned and let himself out, leaving Stiles to stare at the floor, filled with shame.

*

“What are you going to do until you get a new roommate?” Allison asked, and then her face scrunched up, “Since Stiles is gone?”

Derek sighed, rubbing his face. He couldn’t believe _this_ is what Allison wanted to talk about, couldn’t believe how she changed the subject every time he brought up what Stiles had said in the first place – what had led them too where they were now.

“Stiles has agreed to help pay this month’s rent. I guess I’ll have to talk to my mom after that though. I hate asking her for money.”

“It’s tough, but I think you’re better off that way. Without him.”

“Allison, come on.”

“The guy seemed like a nutcase, Derek,” her voice took that sharp edge again, hard, though it hadn’t really left her voice entirely since they she left the shop the day before.

“Aren’t you even a _little_ bit scared?”

“Fous le camp,” she rolled her eyes, and Derek tried to bite back a laugh, shaking his head.

“Okay, stupid question. Allison Argent does not get scared,” he rectified, taking a seat at her kitchen table, watching her mill around, fussing aimlessly. Allison liked to _say_ she didn’t get scared, but her body betrayed her entirely. She could throw up a shield like no one else Derek knew, appear strong and brave on the outside, but he knew her better than that.

“Okay,” she admitted, turning around to face Derek again, “Maybe he has me spooked, but I’m not going to let it affect me. Je refuse.”

“Okay, cool it Ar _gent_ ,” Derek sighed, mimicking the French pronunciation, “You know your French side always comes out when you’re feeling rebellious? It’s hilarious. Start a revolution.” He tried to lighten the atmosphere a little, to put her more at ease, but it was hard when he was feeling just as tense, just a sick to his stomach.

Allison grinned, reached forward to squeeze Derek’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, wagging his face.

“You’re not funny. And I’m not letting some crackpot kid mess with my head.”

Derek’s face fell again when she let go of him and slid into the seat across from him.

“You said you knew his mother. Do you know what happened to her?”

Allison nodded, pressing her lips together tightly.

“She was killed. In their house. Strangled apparently, some other stuff too, it was very gruesome. Neither Stiles nor his Dad were home at the time, I’m not sure if that’s lucky or not. They could have all been killed. Or maybe Claudia might still be alive.”

Derek studied her for a moment, trying to weigh out how much information he had the right to tell her. “Have you ever heard of a Harbinger?” he asked, and Allison nodded.

“Yeah, my dad told me they’re part of the line of Seers, like Banshees and Oracles, except when one dies it gets passed on to the next-” Allison froze, and Derek saw something like recognition flit across her face, “The gloves.”

“What?”

“Stiles has the gloves. His tattoos, they’re the mourning gloves.”

Derek lifted an eyebrow, confused, “Gloves?”

“It’s a very traditional mark of a Harbinger, before it became a thing people were frightened by. They would wear black lace gloves, mourning gloves. But this makes no sense, Stiles- Stiles is a _man_.”

“He called himself an abomination. Thinks it’s not ‘right’ for him to-”

“What is he?” Allison muttered, more of a rhetorical question, but Derek shook his head anyway.

“Even he doesn’t know, Ally,” Derek offered, “And you have to understand, he was trying to help you. Because he _knows_ what’s going to happen to you if you’re not-”

There was a loud clatter as Allison pushed back from the table, and her chair fell to the ground.

“-Careful.”

“You should have told me sooner, Derek. You should have-”

“You were too frantic to talk to last night, Allison. Remember when I left here to bring Stiles’ things to Lydia’s? Remember what you shouted and me, what you called me?”

Allison flushed visibly, ashamed, but it didn’t slow her down, “You should have _told_ me. I need. _Damn_. I need to go-”

“Allison, wait. Just a sec.”

“Oh my god. I need to go!” she shrieked, suddenly flustered, and Derek’s heart sank. Allison whirled around, going in search of her jacket, a hurricane of panic and shock as she practically tore apart her apartment. He knew it was pointless to try stopping her as she came to terms with what would happen.

The door slammed as she rushed out, and he sank down into a stupor. It felt like he’d already lost her.

*

Stiles found himself, for the fourth time that day, absently reaching for his car keys, and he froze. Lydia lifted her head and gave him a strange look from the living-room where she could see him. She muted the television.

“Stiles?”

He put the keys down again and paced the hall some more.

He decided to make lasagna he probably wouldn’t eat.

He vacuumed, much to Lydia’s annoyance.

He got in his Jeep (without even realizing).

He got out again and walked back inside.

He begrudgingly ate some of the lasagna.

He gave in and picked up his keys, shouted an apology to Lydia up the stairs as he left the house, incapable of looking her in the eye.

He drove.

The pull was too strong, an itch under his skin, akin to the days at the peak of his ADHD, unable to sit still, mind racing. He drove all the way across town. The sun had been setting when he left, but by the time he came to a stop, it was dark, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been driving for. He wasn’t sure where he was.

Stiles climbed inelegantly out of the Jeep, going in search of a street sign. _Corner of Elm and Buwick_ , he noted, finding a sign under a streetlamp a little further down the quiet street. He got out his phone to check the GPS, and that was when a scream rang out.

There was a series of heavy footsteps, and Stiles spun on the spot as someone bashed into his shoulder, sending him hard into a brick wall. The figure – a man, possibly, judging by the stature – kept running, and as Stiles got to his feet again, an icy cold chill filled him, like an ice cube down the back of his shirt.

Slowly, hands shaking with energy and terror, he made his way back towards the jeep. At half the distance there, the buildings split into a little alley, perpendicular to the street, and suddenly Stiles was hesitant to move any further. It was like a glass wall had come down before and behind him. The only way to go was to his right, down the alley.

There was a muffled whimper, and Stiles felt his stomach plummet.

He didn’t want to see this.

Didn’t want to be there.

She was there on the ground, curled in against the wall and clutching her stomach. She was pale, the blood seeping between her fingers as she gazed up at him with a shocked expression.

“Allison,” he breathed, dropping down to his knees next to her, and she coughed, blood on her lips.

“ _Help_ ,” she mouthed, and it was like common sense had slapped him right in the face. He grappled with his phone in his hand, shaky fingers tapping out 911 on the emergency call screen.

And then he held her until he heard the sirens.

*

Lydia and Derek burst into the emergency room at the same time to find Stiles slumped down in a waiting room chair, a plastic cup of water in his shaking hand. He was covered in blood.

Derek mouthed at him, trying to find the words, but Stiles took one look at him and knew anyway, gesturing towards the double doors in front of him.

“Wheeled her in there. They’re trying to stabilize her before she goes up to surgery, I-” Stiles shuddered, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Lydia rushed to Stiles as he hunched over a bin, and Derek turned around as Chris Argent appeared at the automatic ER doors.

“Where is she?” he asked, looking panic stricken, as he went with Derek to try get a look in through the doors Stiles had pointed Derek and Lydia towards.

Stiles was swaying in his seat, looking pale and clammy as Lydia rubbed his back. A nurse tried to steer Chris and Derek away from the doors of the emergency room where Allison was, and Chris came to face Stiles and Lydia.

“How did this-?” He began, and then his eyes narrowed in on Stiles, drenched in blood, shaking, _tattooed_. “You.”

Stiles shrank back in the chair.

“I tried-”

Chris took a step forward, and Stiles flinched, sloshing water all over himself, and Lydia stood, putting herself between them.

“Mr Argent, Stiles _saved_ Allison. You should be thanking him. She’d be dead if it wasn’t for him,” She said firmly, and Chris looked from her to Stiles again, still pressing himself as far back as possible into the chair.

“She still might die,” he said quietly.

“Stiles did his best,” Derek affirmed, “He did what he could.”

Stiles glared down at his lap at the blatant lie. There was so much more that he could have done.

“How the hell did this happen? Why were you in that alley with her, anyway? I thought she was dating that McCall kid?”

Derek’s head jerked up, “Allison’s dating Scott?”

“Wait, what, Scott McCall is still in town?” Stiles sat forward, “I had no idea.”

“This still doesn’t answer my question.” Chris rumbled.

“I was driving through town,” Stiles began, “Pulled the Jeep over to make a phone call. I heard her scream, I saw the guy run, and I went to investigate, okay? That’s all.”

Chris looked like he was about to speak again when the doors of the emergency opened, and Allison was wheeled out, surrounded by a flurry doctors and nurses. Stiles’ mouth fell open as Melissa McCall came out, in lavender scrubs stained with blood in places.

“Chris,” she said, and he turned to her expectantly, “They’re taking her up to surgery now that we’ve stemmed the bleed a little. You can follow the gurney up and watch from the gallery if you wish.”

“Thanks Mel,” he said, taking off in the direction of the gurney.

Derek took a seat next to Stiles, and Melissa tracked the movement. A look of surprise crossed her face.

“…Stiles?”

He smiled weakly, already on the verge of tears.

“Hi, Ms McCall.”

She gave him a careful smile in return, took a hesitant step forward, “Um. I can get you a clean shirt if you want.”

Stiles shook his head, “I’m fine, really. Thanks.”

And no more was said, just another awkward grin (more of a grimace) exchanged between them. Once she left, Derek turned to Stiles, hand against his elbow.

“You know Scott?”

“Used to,” Stiles mumbled, giving a jerky shake of his head.

“What happened between you two?”

“We used to be inseparable. His dad died at the beginning of our Senior year.” Stiles answered shortly, “I couldn’t stop it. He never blamed me but… I could never look him in the eye again after that.”

“You cut him out, like you tried to with me.”

Stiles nodded, tightly, eyes wet.

 _You’re all better off that way_ , he thought.

*

Allison came out of surgery three hours later and was put into intensive care. Stiles left Derek and Chris at the hospital, saw Scott in the parking lot and ducked his head, running the other way.

He took a bus in his blood-stained shirt back to Lydia’s, sat in the shower for forty minutes, and finally let himself cry.

After that he curled up in the bed in Lydia’s spare room. He heard her coming home, climbing the stairs, and tentatively knock at the door, but he just burrowed deeper under the covers and turned over, waiting for the pounding in his head subside.

Stiles surprised himself by falling asleep there in the bed, and jolted awake as he heard the door of the room click.

As Stiles saw it was beginning to get light out again, a weary looking Derek knelt down beside the bed.

“Hey,” he said, and Stiles tucked his chin out over the quilt.

“Hi,” he said, voice still a little tight from the crying.

“You ran off before Allison woke up. She wanted to see you.”

Stiles bit his lip. “It might be better if she doesn’t.”

“You’re the reason she’s alive, Stiles,” Derek whispered, leaning in. “When will you stop thinking of yourself as a burden?”

Stiles sighed and wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Allison. Will she be okay?”

Derek nodded, curling his fingers around Stiles’ and lifting his hand to kiss the back of it.

“She’s going to be just fine, eventually,” Derek said, and for emphasis followed it with, “Because of _you._ You saved my best friend. Thank you.”

Stiles nodded, clearing his throat a little as he took in the sight of Derek there on the floor next to him, warm and open and not blaming Stiles for a _single thing_.

“Do you have to go back soon?”

Derek shook his head.

“Chris and Scott are with her. I can stay.”

Stiles moved over from the center of the bed to make room for Derek, who climbed in next to him and pulled Stiles into his arms. Though they hadn’t spent that long together, Stiles felt so connected to him, so anchored, that the pounding in his head started to fade.

“I’m sorry I ran out. After we…”

“It’s okay. We’ll get a second chance.”

*

Second chances came about a lot for Stiles after that.

He got a second chance at meeting Allison for the first time.

He got a second chance at being Scott’s best friend.

And most significantly, he got a second shot with Derek.

Suddenly, there were more people that Stiles could count in his life that didn’t view him as some sort of freak of supernature. After a thorough check up from Melissa, Lydia determined that ‘changing Allison’s fate’ had no detrimental effects on him, and no lasting physical effects on Allison but the scar she would have.

“It makes sense now, what my mother said.”

“Hmm?” Derek turned on his side, looking at Stiles’ profile, a silhouette against the dawn light peeking through the curtains.

“I should not tamper with the course of nature. I don’t think that applied in the case of Allison. I know people say that violence is in human nature, but I don’t believe it. I believe human nature is to be a good person, and to die of natural causes, after living a full, long life.”

“You’re very optimistic,” Derek said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Makes a change, doesn’t it?” Stiles smiled in return, a little cheeky, “Maybe I should help people. Use my powers for goodness, and not evil...ness.”

Derek snorted, and turned back over, “I’m going back to sleep.”

“You’re so boring,” Stiles huffed, side-eyeing him.

“And thank goodness for it,” Derek replied.

Stiles agreed wholeheartedly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is sooo appreciated you have no idea.


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